


The Devil You Know

by QuiltedRose49



Category: Hellsing, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alucard’s having a rough time, Ciel’s a good young master, Gen, Major AU, Sebastian has a thing for strays, plenty of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuiltedRose49/pseuds/QuiltedRose49
Summary: With a hellish future of enslavement under Abraham Van Hellsing to look forward to, Dracula makes a desperate bid for freedom.





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Kuroshitsuji, Hellsing, or their respective characters.
> 
> A/N: This is a concept I’ve had brewing for a while. It’s a one-shot for now, but if I like how this first chapter goes I’ll probably write more. 
> 
> (Yes, I’m still working on Evil Nobility, but I just had to get this out of my head for a bit)
> 
> ~Happy Reading!~

The room was small and there were no lights. There was but one door and no windows. The door locked from the outside. The room was bare and made of smooth, damp flagstones that were lined with a persistent black grime. In truth, this was no room at all but a cell. No shelves lined its walls for the storing of roots, tubers, and potatoes, but had instead numerous religious symbols, arcane runes, with strange, white paste gumming the otherwise flat stone. This was a cell that served as a prison.

Yellow beams of light flooded the room abruptly as the door was shoved open with a rusty squeal, and a tall, spindly-framed body was flung unceremoniously into the cell's waiting emptiness and searing, holy protections. An almost indiscernible wheeze was heard as the rough landing forced any remaining air from the individual's lungs. A filthy, matted mane of what could be age-whitened hair masked the face from view. Another rusty squeal and the disappearance of light marked the closing of the cell door.

The figure did not move.

* * *

In the beginning he had fought. He had fought, raved, snarled, howled, and _tried_ to bite. It availed him nothing. First, he was placed in the cell. His coffin was withheld and no blood was forthcoming. Three nights passed…then Hellsing came for him.

Came for him in his weakened state, dragged him with the help of fellows he did not recognize from the wild chase through Romania, to a different cell. Brightly lit, white, sterile even, until he was cut open.

Then, he knew pain.

Of course, he had known pain in the past. Had been a victim of it, a student of it, and a dealer of it. This was new pain, however, pain he did not understand how to alleviate, let alone escape. At first he thought it was punishment, and was partially correct. A delighted gleam would flare briefly in the ice-blue orbs of the Dutch professor when he screamed in anguish. He was often too agonized to feel humiliated by it. After many times of this being repeated, he understood that information was being sought. In his delirium he attempted to provide it, anything he thought might be useful. The experiments continued.

The starvation continued.

Eventually he became too weak for speech, then too weak for screams. Soon he forgot how to. Sensation was registered, but there was naught to be done about it. Thrashing did not help, resistance did not save. An endless mist of never ending anguish spread before his senses, so he paid them little mind.

He drifted.

Time passed.

* * *

Blinding light erupted in his vision. Rough hands seized his bony shoulders and hauled him upright. Voices sounded over his head, gruff and unkind, though he couldn't quite make out the words. It usually wasn't worth the effort when he could. He remained limp.

Pulling, tugging, they were out of the cell. Lights seared his pupils, so fatigue-blackened lids closed over them. A pause, then more shoving and dragging, unkempt talons raking across stone. A solid surface pressed underneath his back. They had laid him down. He sank further into the numbness of his consciousness. The torture would begin soon. That much he still knew.

Fire evaporated his mental fog, and his eyes snapped open unseeing, as his back arched. A choked hiss escaped his gaping mouth. A straining inhale, then a hoarse scream tore out of his long disused throat. His mind floundered in terrified confusion.

_NEW!_ This was _new_ pain! The likes of which he had never felt in his life, and his eyes swiveled about as he fought to comprehend what was causing it. There were figures standing about him, dark from the light shining above them, and his mind distantly registered Hellsing stood among him. Words reached his ears, a low chant of ancient times, more ancient than himself and filled with power, a power that made the chant have knowable meaning regardless of tongue or mental capability.

Words of binding. Words of enslavement.

Even as bonds of fire licked across his flesh, an iced rock of dread and horror weighed in his stomach.

He had already known there would be no escape. Now there would be no chance of death. Hellsing would not expend such effort on a binding seal only to have him exterminated.

He would have sobbed his despair had he not been so busy writhing and howling.

The back of his left hand burned as though a new sun had formed atop it, and he shrieked. He caught a glimpse of a seal being carved into it before his vision went white with agony.

Then the door slammed open.

"DIRECTOR HELLSING….!" The rest of the words dribbled off into meaningless noise in his awareness, as something more worthy dominated the whole of his focus.

One chanter stumbled in his rhythm. The enchantment faltered in response. The flesh carver paused on his way to the unmarked right hand. Two amateur mistakes: both fatal on their own, let alone coupled together.

He _moved_.

He lurched from where he laid, graceless, but powerful in his hurt and desperation. Hellsing was roaring, moving forward to attack, he couldn't tell what the others were doing. He lashed out at the advancing professor. He thought the strike made contact as Hellsing was no longer blocking his path, he wasn't sure, but the door was _open!_

He staggered out into the hallway, stumbling for the exit, for a way out of the basement. He managed to force himself into a trot as the voices from the cell grew louder and more urgent.

This was his one chance. He would not have another.

He did not remember making it up the staircase, he only recalled his blurry run through the house to the outside because the house had less protections against vampires than the basement dungeons, his mind functioned better. Even as he knew the mistakes made in the ritual were of luck, so too did he know that the delay in the announcement of his escape resulting in the failure of Hellsing's men to entrap him in the yard was also of luck.

He made for the trees bordering the yard. The moon hung swollen and gold above him. The shouts coming from the large house behind urged him on. The forest swallowed him. He did not stop.

* * *

Hands on his shoulders. Gloved, soft. The scent of cinnamon and linen. Movement.

* * *

Cloth on his face, down his neck. Water running down his ribs. Fingers running through his hair, rubbing his scalp. Arm lifted, fingers tracing the back of his left hand.

Fire.

He snarls, twisting his arm away. Air is still and thick. Then a cloth on his back, the smell of soap, and he drifts.

* * *

Solid underneath him, cool and dry air around him. Dark, earth-and-stone smell, he is beneath the ground. In a crypt, no coffin, no home soil, but still hallowed and restful.

A white face swims briefly across his view. Cinammon and linen. He feels the dawning sun sweep across the land.

Sleep takes him.

* * *

Evening and he wakes. Confusion, this is not his cell, and then rememberance. There had been a ritual of binding fire, he had run, trees on all sides…he been cleaned, placed in this crypt. He remembered a white face and he sat up.

He froze.

White-Face was still there, sitting in the dark, and he had not sensed him. That was frightening.

Movement, an arm swathed in black and ending with a white, gloved hand lifted. There was a bottle in that hand. A bottle filled with sloshing crimson.

He did not remember taking the bottle, barely recalled drinking it, but _did_ feel the heat of life-blood pooling in his deprived stomach, felt it gush through withered veins, felt it set to work on his many wounds and marks.

He needed more. He was given more.

Safe, sated, healing.

He slumped back. He rested through the evening and the next day.

Three more nights passed in this fashion.

On the fifth night he lowered his empty bottle and looked to White-Face. White-Face's mouth moved, words were spoken, but he didn't understand them. White-Face's head tilted, his mouth moved again. The words sounded different, familiar, but still unintelligible. White-Face frowned, but there was no anger, so he relaxed.

White-Face stood and left. He blinked and slumped back, ready to rest more. He was better and the blood helped, but with no home soil and coffin, combined with the extensive abuse of his person for an unknowable amount of time, his healing was significantly slower.

He sat back up. White-Face was back. White-Face was setting a coffin down before him. The lid was removed and White-Face motioned to it.

He staggered to his feet, eyes trained on the coffin. Too quickly, he stumbled. He saw White-Face step forward, hand out, and he snarled, fangs flashing in the gloom.

Immortal fuchsia shone from White-Face's eyes, churning and vile, painful to look at, and White-Face _snarled back!_

He froze instinctively, lips sliding back over his teeth, snarl choked off. Images and ancient knowledge bombarded his mental landscape, and he regarded White-Face with stark fear and respect. White-Face's eyes still glowed a horrible fuchsia, but the snarl slid away. White-Face gestured again to the coffin, and he moved to it again, slower this time, and with one eye trained on White-Face.

He lowered himself in carefully and was immediately comforted by the satin-cushioned sides of the coffins walls rising around him.

White-Face appeared in his vision again, the coffin lid held firmly in white-gloved hands. White-Face's eyes had stopped glowing. In the absence of the fuchsia, he saw now that White-Face's eyes were normally a cool, brown color. Those brown orbs held a question in them, and he let his eyelids sink low in answer.

White-Face lowered the coffin lid over him. His eyes closed fully as the blackness of the coffin swallowed him. He slept.

* * *

His recovery hastened after the procurement of his coffin. It lasted only a few more days after White-Face gave him entire boxes of his home soil. Now, reunited with the earth of his original home and aided by his physical recovery, memory and focus began to ebb back into the flow of his consciousness.

When White-Face spoke to him again in those words that thrummed with familiarity, he understood them.

" _Good evening, how do you feel_?" Romanian.

White-Face was speaking in Romanian…and he understood him!

Throat working, tongue running across his lips, he tried to answer. A coughing wheeze disturbed the still air of the crypt. White-Face waited patiently.

He looked to White-Face and settled for a nod. White-Face gave a pleased hum.

* * *

He stayed awake all night and every night now. White-Face was there almost every night, waiting for him to emerge from his coffin, and the nights White-Face was not able to come, there were still bottles of blood set out for him to partake of. He never attempted to leave, he dared not test White-Face's patience too far, for he immediately understood that the horrors he suffered at the hands of Hellsing would pale in significance to White-Face's wrath. Besides…Hellsing was still out there somewhere.

The evenings White-Face was present were filled with talking, or rather White-Face asking him questions. They were careful questions, basic, pointed, and when he could not remember, or he felt frightened, when memories of pain and terror swamped his waking eyes, White-Face did not pressure him.

White-Face would talk instead. Talked in Romanian, of himself and his going-on's, until he could blot out past agonies and focus on White-Face again. He learned that White-Face worked in a large house. The large house was owned by a powerful master. White-Face was a servant.

That bit was unexpected, but understandable. Immortals such as White-Face, for the telling, vile eyes marked White-Face as precisely that, often entered into contracts with other beings. Such contracts typically involved the immortal performing tasks or favors for their masters.

White-Face had another supervisor and four fellow servants. He learned that White-Face didn't like any of them much, though White-Face did not speak any such words aloud. The tone used was enough to communicate his distaste.

He learned that White-Face was not referred to as such, but that his name was Sebastian.

Sebastian Michaelis, the Phantomhive Butler.

The "Phantomhive Butler" bit was meaningless to him, and he focused instead on the name: Sebastian Michaelis. He committed those two words to memory, and superimposed them over churning, fuchsia eyes.

* * *

Sebastian began to thread different sounding words into his speech, and it was a few nights before he discerned that Sebastian was speaking English. Yes…that's right, Romanian was his mother tongue, he had taught himself English in the past because, because, because…

He couldn't recall. He supposed it was no longer important. What was important was that it pleased Sebastian, and that Sebastian immediately switched over to English for all conversations he held with him.

* * *

The next night Sebastian appeared with a set of clothes tucked neatly beneath his arm.

"You've been cooped up in here for some time. Fancy a walk about the grounds?" He nodded eagerly, and Sebastian gave a low chuckle before holding out the set of clothing.

"These are for you. We wouldn't want anyone mistaking you for a ghost, now would we?" He glanced down at himself in startlement, noticing for the first time what he was dressed in.

Ebony coils of his hair rested on the snowy shoulders of his evening dressing gown. His skin, what little could be seen of it, blended almost perfectly with the bleached fabric. He probably would look like some sort of wraith gliding about on the lawn.

He took the clothes from Sebastian and examined them for a moment. Sebastian had given him a plain, black pair of trousers, dark gray socks, black boots, a white shirt, and a long, black, overcoat. He hummed in approval and Sebastian smirked.

"I'm glad it pleases you. I'll give you a moment. If you'll join me outside when you're finished, then we'll set off." He nodded in understanding and Sebastian made his exit.

It took a moment to remember how to take off his sleeping gown, another moment to remember how to pull the different articles of clothing onto himself, and yet another moment to remember how to tie and fasten all strings and buttons adorning his clothes.

He managed, however, and quickly made his way to the top of the crypt stairs and out the open crypt door. The moon arrested his vision for a moment; it hung swollen and gold. He stayed there for a long moment, until the sound of a throat clearing brought his attention back down to the earth.

Sebastian was stood waiting for him. He ran a critical eye over him.

"Very good. Shall we?"

They quietly made their way through the small graveyard, just a few mere yards from the official manor grounds. He gaped at the size of the manor house, Hellsing's house certainly hadn't been that large! Sebastian let him stare for a moment then lead him about, keeping a running commentary of the different sites. When Sebastian was finished they simply walked around the grounds along the forest line.

It was good, he felt good.

* * *

Two more nights passed and he managed to say "yes" and "no" to a few of Sebastian's questions.

Sebastian came to him another night later and told him it was time.

* * *

A single cerulean eye bore into his from behind the solid desk. Sebastian was stood behind his master's throne-like study chair, gazing languidly at him as well.

He understood what this was. The immortal had done all it could for him, as much as its contract would allow. That the creature's master was a boy mattered not, with Sebastian to carry out his wishes the boy may as well be a titan in comparison to himself. Now it was up to him.

"Sebastian tells me you're a vampire."

"Y-yes," his voice was more unsteady than he wished it to be, and still very coarse.

"He also said he found you near a final death collapsed near the property lines of my estate. Would you care to explain how this came to be?" He swallowed thickly.

"I was t-trapped…was hurt…so ran," his unmarked right hand lifted to point to Sebastian, "He f-found me,"

"Do you remember who or what trapped you?"

"Hell…sing," the young master hummed in thought.

"I've never heard such a name, it sounds foreign," the boy mused.

He waited in silence.

"Sebastian has explained a few things about vampires to me…Yes, I know what I shall do with you," the young master murmured.

The child's voice raised as he addressed him, "Vampire, I am hiring you on to the Phantomhive Staff. You will be the caretaker of the graveyard and a partnered groundskeeper to the gardener, Finnian."

It was more than he had dared to hope for and a quick glance in Sebastian's direction revealed the butler to be sporting a small, expectant smile. Oh, right!

"T-thank you, young m-master," the boy smirked in response.

"Well? Does my new cryptkeeper have a name?" He paused.

He had a name from before, from the wilds of Romania, titles won from bloodied fields of old wars. He couldn't recall most of them, and those he could no longer applied to him and his new station. There was a name Hellsing had briefly referred to him by, and while he loathed the use of anything originating from that man, it was rather fitting and still bore a connection to times of old. When he spoke again there was no tremor in his voice.

"Alucard. My name is Alucard,"


	2. The New Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own these franchises.
> 
> A/N: I didn’t get this posted quite as soon as I would’ve liked. It gives off such a different vibe compared to Evil Nobility, I wanted to make sure I was being consistent.
> 
> ~Happy Reading!~

His new… _master_ , Earl Ciel Phantomhive, was not one to waste time.

The very same evening the boy hired him on, Sebastian whipped out a small sheaf of documents and a pen. Both servant and child-earl watched as he hovered over the papers, the pen quivering in his grip.

The black lines of the documents were meaningless swirls to him, harsh and unforgiving. He used to be able to read this script, _remembered_ reading this language as easily as breathing. A strange stinging sensation had begun at the back of his eyeballs and he had swiped a hand gruffly across them, before squinting at the papers once more. The boy had frowned, and Sebastian leaned forward to read the documents to him, gloved fingers lightly tracing their surface.

He felt brief panic claw up his throat like a desperate rat; a contract, binding, trapping, he wouldn't be able to—no, no, _no_ , this was not the same! This was a common contract, human employment. Not a binding fire branded into his flesh.

His signature was scrawled, little better than chicken scratch.

The earl merely nodded with distant approval, and Sebastian's lips were curled with satisfaction.

It was enough.

* * *

Sebastian showed him the graveyard chapel.

It…had seen better days. Sebastian told him he was to board within. It would, Alucard grimly concluded, see better days again.

He spent the next night cleaning out the side room off the main auditorium, with Sebastian overseeing him as he went about the unfamiliar tasks of sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, and polishing. The butler stepped in when the time came to paint the walls, ensuring none of the liquid pigment spattered across the newly cleaned surfaces. The chemical smell coated his nasal passages, and he sneezed, glaring when the demon snickered under his breath.

They walked the grounds as the walls dried. When they returned the plain grey tiles gleamed, the lustrous dark wood of the trimming shone, and the walls were a stark white. He was moved in by dawn.

The next night Sebastian came to him again with a list of goals to accomplish in the coming weeks. He drank his meal of rich, red warmth as Sebastian covered the items.

The chapel was in desperate need of restoration, both within and without, the tombstones, crypts, and markers needed a thorough cleaning and refining, and the botany of the graveyard would require near daily maintenance. Alucard was to oversee all of it.

He eyed the single spire boasted by the chapel. He turned to Sebastian.

"I'm not fixing that cross, though,"

The demon's head tilted back as he laughed, low and rich.

* * *

"A-are you _sure_ about this?" Finny squeaked.

Mey-Rin didn't look up from the plain cloth she was attempting to artfully drape. "Oh yes, he hasn't come into the manor at all that we've noticed, the young master put him straight to work, and Mr. Sebastian says we shouldn't disturb him during the day—"

"Yes, but does it _have_ to be me?"

"Of course it does!" Bard snorted. "Mr. Sebastian did say that besides himself, you would be the one working with Mr. Alucard the most, patrolling or maintaining the grounds together. It's only proper that you be the one to reach out to him first. Take his measure and report back to us!"

"Now Bard, this isn't a reconnaissance mission," Mey-Rin chided with a gentle elbow to the cook's ribs. "This is just extending a friendly invitation, letting him know we'd like to welcome him into the fold."

"Ho, ho, ho!"

"You see? Even Tanaka agrees with me, he does!" A wide grin split her face, and she held out the draped object with an expectant air.

"Best hurry, Fin, sun's already down so you should be able to get it to him without much fuss," Bard said as he peered out the kitchen window.

Finny's shoulders slumped in defeat and he reluctantly took up the clothed "present".

"You'll do great, Finny! We'll be right here waiting for you when you get back, we will!"

The kitchen door slammed forebodingly behind the young gardener, and Finny couldn't keep from wincing. He stood still atop the little stoop, gazing out across the lush lawn of the Phantomhive Estate to the tall, wrought-iron fence in the distance.

A rolling, white mist was already seeping across the landscape, and the night air was absent of croaking frogs and chirping crickets.

"Easy for you all to say," he whispered tremulously, "you're not the ones walking to a graveyard in the middle of the night."

Inhaling deeply, Finny took his first step off the stoop and onto the lawn. The moon gleamed high in its arc through the sky, reflecting off the millions of dew drops already coating the grass. He exhaled forefully and began his trek.

As he drew closer to the tall gate, his misgivings were slowly becoming real worries. Just because he was a gardener it didn't mean that he slept in the _garden_ , what sort of person was Mr. Alucard to want to sleep in the graveyard when he could stay in the manor instead?

He winced as he swung one of the gate doors open with enough force for it to clang off the attached fencing. He paused, head swiveling frantically to see if anyone had heard or was coming, and, spotting no one, tried to relax the boa constrictor's grip he had on their specially prepared gift.

"Calm down, Finnian, there's no need to be so scared that you lose control. Mey-Rin, Tanaka, Bard, and yourself have worked hard for this, no need to spoil it. Mr. Alucard is probably a nice enough man for the young master to hire him…" Oh, who was he kidding?

Taking deep breaths to steady himself, he continued on into the cemetery. Had he not been so focused on not crushing the gift in his arms, Finny might have noticed that the gravestones seemed…shinier than usual, the carved script cleaner and sharper, the grass neatly trimmed, and a single, fully-bloomed flower placed at the foot of each stone. The path that he was automatically following was carefully kept on both sides and laced with firm, dew-slicked gravel.

Mist curled and licked round the grave markers and the small chapel that crouched in the midst of the cemetery was just a few yards away now. A single, lit lantern was perched on the rails of the chapel porch.

Finny swallowed noisily; Mr. Alucard was awake.

 _Sleeping during the day so that he could patrol at night was understandable, but nothing had been stopping him from at least stepping into the house to say hello or to get a quick bite to eat, oh what if…what if he_ didn't eat _? What if he was some sort of scary boogeyman that liked to sleep in a grave pit instead of one of the empty chapel rooms like Mr. Sebastian said or—_

" _Hooot whooooo!"_

"Wauuggghh!" Finny wailed in terror, nearly flinging their gift across the graveyard, and the previously unnoticed owl took wing from its perch atop a nearby marble headstone with an offended screech.

Finny whirled about to make his own escape, only to slam with foundation-shaking force into something cold, tall, and solid.

He froze for a fraction of a second, then gradually craned his neck to peer up at the barrier.

Blazing red eyes shadowed with a riotous mane of inky curls bore into his own.

"Ah—er, that's uh,…we made this!" Finny thrust the now rumpled gift that had somehow survived the collison into what he thought was Mr. Alucard's chest (or stomach, it was hard to tell, he was like a solid black pillar), which also had the benefit of giving him some much needed space.

Crimson eyes narrowed into slits.

Finny gulped "Aaah, hopeyoulikeitsorrypleasedon'teatme—GOOD NIGHT!"

He shouted that last bit as he swerved around the as yet still figure, gravel spraying underfoot as he charged headlong down the path, through the gate and on until he reached the manor.

Two red eyes stared bemusedly after his fleeing figure.

The door slammed shut, echoing across the grounds (The Phantomhive staff stared nonplussed at the heaving gardener braced against the kitchen door before assailing him with questions), and it was then that Alucard looked down at the crumpled, cloth draped bundle in his arms. A sweet smell laced with an undertone of something burnt and acrid wafted up to meet him. A frown creased his face. He turned back and made his way to the chapel. He rested the bundle down before the door and turned back to the graveyard.

There was work to be done.

He cleaned and straightened the path that the boy had strewn asunder, finished cleaning the stones on the northwest side, and picked up the rest of the fallen tree boughs. As he worked, he ran through a mental list of materials he would need to ask Sebastian to purchase. He had cleaned his room, but it still needed patching, a fresh coat of paint wouldn't hurt. The main chamber of the chapel was a different matter entirely, and was in need of far more thought and materials. When he was finished with his menial tasks, he set off along the edges of the estate, drinking in the myriad sounds of nocturnal animals and the wind dancing through the needles of pines.

The moon was melting into the tree line and the east was just beginning to lighten when he made his way back up the neat path to the old chapel. He blew out the lantern, grasped its handle and turned to the chapel door. He blinked languidly, like a cat, when his eyes lit upon the white cloth at his doorstep.

Ah yes, the boy's…present, was it? He had nearly forgotten.

He stooped to pick it up and opened the door to the velvet blackness within. Crossing the threshold brought him immediately into the auditorium, overseen by a stern, dust-coated podium at the far end. He stepped to the left, walking along the wall until he came to a side door. The handle appeared freshly oiled. He twisted it and stepped into his room.

His coffin was laid by the far wall. A single, plain end table was set next to it and there was a small candle burning rather low atop it. Another thing to ask Sebastian for.

He set the extinguished lantern by the door and moved to set the "present" on the table by the flickering candle.

He pulled off the cloth without ceremony and a slightly bent and warped wicker basket was revealed. The burnt stench was much stronger now, more so than the sweet smell.

He stared.

It was…the gardener had given him a _gift basket_?

Nonplussed, he reached for the paper square that had been tied to the handle of the basket with a cherry-red ribbon, and read the somewhat scribbly handwriting.

_Dear Mr. Alucard_

_Welcome to the Phantomhive Staff! Given our schedules, we know we won't be seeing much of you, but we just wanted to let you know that you are always welcome to come and visit with us or have supper with us (though that would really be more your breakfast instead of dinner for you) if your schedule lets you. We'd be happy to meet you!_

_Yours,_

_Mey-Rin,_ _Bardroy, Finnian, and Tanaka_

Alucard snorted softly and tossed the card to the side, before looking through the contents of the basket. There was a paper parcel tied with string from which the burnt smell emanated most, a pale square of something with another bright ribbon wound around it, a little bundle of packets, and a carefully wrapped and cushioned item.

The pale square was a sweet soap. He pulled a glove off and ran a finger across it. He was pleased to find that it was soft and silky to the touch and a closer sniff revealed it to be not sickeningly or overly sweet. He set it to the side and pulled out the packets. _Those must be from the gardener_ , he surmised, as he found them to be seed packets, each labeled with the names of flowers. Glancing through the names, he nodded in approval.

One less thing to ask Sebastian for.

Then he pulled out the tastefully wrapped object and ripped the paper open. Snow-white china gleamed at him. The tea cup and accompanying saucer were quite simple, but elegantly shaped. A thin, crimson line ran around the rim of the saucer with a small row of interlocking black diamonds strung beneath it. The tea cup had the same design lining its lip. He gazed at the set for a long moment before gently setting it to the side.

Now the paper parcel. His nose wrinkled in distaste. He tentatively ripped the paper off of one end and fought not to gag as the smell of burnt food seemed to fill the room. Grabbing the offensive article, Alucard stomped out of his room, and out the door of the chapel.

He hissed as the early morning light struck his person and he circled around the chapel towards the back of the cemetery. Once he reached the back fence, he cocked his arm back and hurled what he thinks was supposed to be a loaf of bread (but was a log of charcoal instead) with all his might into the forest beyond. Not waiting to see where it might have landed, the vampire turned on his heel and stomped back to the chapel, growling under his breath.

The caws of offended crows and the whistles of alarmed songbirds was heard in the distance, and a little cloud of aggravated fowls could be seen hovering above the tree line half a mile away.

He kept the teacup and saucer on his nightstand. The soap scent always lingered with him when he bathed, and the seeds were swiftly sewn into the rich earth of the graveyard. He kept the scribbled note in the dark of his nightstand drawer.

It saw the light of his candle more often than he would ever admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had so much written for this second chapter, but I wound up cutting out half of it. It just wouldn’t fit the pacing and feel of what has been done and what I want to make happen. That being said, there will definitely be more chapters in the future, especially as I get the flow of the story more ironed out in my head.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please COMMENT!!!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: There you have it. Please, please, pleeaassseee leave a comment, let me know what you think! Thank you for reading!


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